


Welcome to Paradise

by lasergirl



Category: Fake News RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 15:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasergirl/pseuds/lasergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Jon sees the light at the end of the tunnel.  It's a brave new world out there.  Follows "Drunken, Naked, Bruised"and "I Don't Want Your Apology."</p>
    </blockquote>





	Welcome to Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Jon sees the light at the end of the tunnel. It's a brave new world out there. Follows "Drunken, Naked, Bruised"and "I Don't Want Your Apology."

  
Somehow, the rest of the week passes in a motion blur, a rush of sound and colour that Jon manages through without tripping over his own feet and falling flat on his face. That's a relief, at least a little, when the whole of his public persona is based on some faux-news show and a snarky high school textbook, to hide behind himself and not let it show he cares too much.

Oh, sure, in between those moments he's black as the underside of a storm cloud. It isn't pretty, because apparently the whole idea of Democracy is good in theory, but in practice there's far too many assholes in the world. And he should know, because this is show business!

"What's the best we can do this morning?" The round-table discussion is littered with the daily newspapers and lurid magazines. A _Rolling Stone_ with Kerry's Frankenstein head on it sits halfway down, and Jon grabs it out. "People listen to us for our opinions. Do we really want to say that Hunter S. Thompson thinks Bush is a donkey? Is that our stance on this?"

Rob snatches the magazine away from him and mutters "he talked like a donkey with no sense at all - " and looks back at Jon with a ridiculous question on his face. "All that booze and that was the best he could come up with?"

Underneath the magazine is a tabloid with a grainy ambulance photo - 'Was It An Accident? Daily Show Host Hospitalized Following Election Results!' Ah, the ever vigilant newshounds of the free press. Assholes.

"You know we have a responsibility to be educated as well as funny, right?" Jon's head feels like someone's stuffed a whole sock drawer into it; muddled, fuzzy. Stupid, but he knows he's got it right.

Rob says, " Seriously, the man's been outraged since he woke up from a coma in 1992 and found out it wasn't the sixties anymore."

"Uh, don't sell him short, it's still free speech." At least Stephen is trying to be fair, which is funny. Jon thinks Rob Corddry would be the first man to back the Gonzo Ticket if it came down to it, but maybe his timing is off. The random conversations going around the table are making his skull ache.

"If we say the word 'ass' does that make it funnier?" Rob shoots it down the table to one of the writers, who's buried in newspaper clippings and a scowl.

"Can you get "ass" and "Bush" into the same sentence and still maintain your journalistic integrity?" Jason says without looking up from his headlines.

"I though we'd gotten over Dick and Bush jokes," Ed jumps in, "and everyone knows we don't even HAVE journalistic integrity anymore. Remember? We LOST."

"Hey, wasn't it your idea to up the gay jokes?" Stephen's starting to get that brimstone-and-hellfire expression on his face that means he's warming up for something. It's getting into a catfight that Jon doesn't even want to watch - fuck - he ducks out in time to escape the next volley of "up your own gay jokes," hitting the fan.

There's a burning in his eyes that faintly he recognizes as tears - shit - a grown man crying over this just doesn't happen. What the hell is wrong with him? Emotion is a dangerous quality to have, alongside those downplayed ones like intelligence, acuity, the ability to answer questions truthfully. None of which a man needs to actually run the country.

The halls are a beige labyrinth studded with posters and award plaques - he navigates without even looking and quarantines himself in the men's room. The mirror doesn't lie; he looks tired, haggard. Circles under his eyes. Is that even more grey in his hair? Just what he needed, more credibility.

He runs the tap and wets his face, the back of his neck. His shirt cuffs dip into the basin, leaching cold water up his arms. Ah, see, if this was high school he'd be crying over being first out at dodge ball, and he hated dodge ball. It's not exactly the same thing - the fate of the free world and all that.

It's power, though, which is something bigger than Jon and the network, and the country and yes, even the President. What, after all, can any respectable news program say honestly about the regime unless it goes through the rubber stamp of the über-conservative censors. It's a self-editing medium, the eternally hungry furnaces of 1984, the slips of paper continuously rewritten as history attempts to explain itself. So, when you're not allowed to write mean things about your friends in the yearbook, the things you say about your enemies will all but vanish in time.

Jon blots his face with scratchy tissue and tries to mop up his shirt sleeves. He's a mess but that doesn't mean he has to be a slob. The men's room door bangs open and shut and then he's looking up, startled, into Stephen's mirror-face. He slaps the nasty tabloid down on the countertop where the lurid paramedic photo grimaces.

"Yeah, it's just not funny anymore, is it?" Jon's never accused Stephen of being sympathetic before, but at least on this they agree.

"Why can't we just go back to making cheap laughs?" Says Jon, which isn't what he meant to say. 'Hi,' would have been a better way to start the conversation but no, already doomed. He buries his head in his dampened arms. "You remember the days when we just asked about Björk? And no one knew what the heck we were doing?"

"I think you crossed that line," Stephen says. There's an uncomfortable pause where Jon sees he doesn't know what to do with himself. The hurdle's crossed when the light touch of a hand traces across his shoulder. "Tough guy, Jon, it's a big, big world."

"I just want us to make a fucking difference," Jon says miserably, oh the drama queen pageantry of the whole scene is making him grin hysterically. Can you still cry when you're laughing? "We. I don't give a shit about me. We, the Institution of the Daily Show and our own social integrity. To say that stuff they won't tell you on TV."

"It's comedy. They'd let us run around bare-ass naked if it was entertaining." Stephen ponders for a moment, "Of course, that's a lot more disturbing than it is funny."

"Nobody wants to see you naked." Uhm.

Stephen shrugs self-consciously and shrinks to lean against the wall. "I'm just saying. You didn't think we should make fun of the President after 9/11 but we seem to have done okay with that recently."

And that's it. Jon turns around, red eyes and all, and it makes sense all of a sudden. The barest, the most honest and naked truth is, well, the Truth. And the whole awful ordeal of the last few days crystallizes into something diamond-sharp and honed; the wicked painful truth. He thought he knew what anger was, but that was just outrage.

In fifteen seconds he's back in the boardroom and the conversation grinds to a dull mutter when he bursts in, waving the newspaper in one hand, and the dark bruised line of sutures on his wrist.

"You don't have to hear this from the tabloids. There's too much spin going on right now and I'm getting dizzy. It's time to get off. I care about this country, and whether you think it's funny or not, this it the Truth." The faces around the table are frozen between shock and fear, unsure of what they see, everyone an inch away from panic. "We must have no shame. People watch us, people care about us, and until the end of the world and ONLY THEN do we stop talking. Did I try to kill myself because of the elections? No. The election isn't important. This isn't about politics, it's about Idealism. I honestly believe we can give this country something, and if that's me going on air and showing them this - and then we'll get cancelled because it's gross to show this on TV - then I'll do it. I'll do what I have to in order to get the point across."

It's not a well-thought-out speech, it's not primped and polished and it has all the editorial weight of a bubblegum comic, but Jon thinks he sees sparks in the eyes of everyone around the table. Even Stephen, who ducks into the room halfway through and pretends he was there all along, hiding behind the tabloid. There just might be a chance for this.

"Then here," says Jon, "Is where we start."

END.

Questions? Comments? Feedback always appreciated.


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